


Bug Hunt

by DangerousCommieSubversive



Category: Young Avengers
Genre: Alternate Universe - Science Fiction, Hostage Situations, Kidnapping, M/M, Military, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-16
Updated: 2013-10-16
Packaged: 2017-12-29 13:44:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,564
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1006136
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DangerousCommieSubversive/pseuds/DangerousCommieSubversive
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Thomas Shepherd's the only ex-con in Kate Bishop's special forces troop, and nobody else will let him forget it. By the time the troop's dispatched to take out an alien commando hiding in a deserted military base he figures he's got nothing much to lose. Except, when said alien commando <em>kidnaps</em> him and holds him <em>hostage</em>, maybe his life.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Bug Hunt

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maelikki](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Maelikki).



> Thanks to Billywick for cheering me on, and to Billywick, Zethsaire, and MalevolentCosmicEntity for their beta help!
> 
> Based on this picture by Maelikki:

_0800_

 

Tom Shepherd woke to a crick in his back from the shitty military bunk and Captain Bishop's voice shouting from the speaker next to his ear. “Time to wake up, people! I want you all in the mess in five minutes!”

He groaned as he rolled out of bed, yawned as nanites cleaned his teeth, scowled as he pulled on his uniform, and was the last one down. Hell if he was hurrying for _Bishop._ Hell if he'd hurry _anywhere_ on this vortex-damned ship.

The other troopers—he wouldn't call them his comrades—didn't even look up from their Stark rations when he walked in. With Kaplan he could figure it was distraction; the team psychic was rubbing at his braced leg like it pained him. Altman ate like a dog, with a single-minded focus that didn't take interruptions. Bradley, though...Bradley just didn't like him much, which suited Tom fine, since he didn't like Bradley much either.

And then there was Captain Bishop, who swallowed her mouthful and said, “You're late, Shepherd. Should've been here two minutes ago.”

“Yeah, well, what's two minutes.” He threw himself into an empty chair.

Or tried to, but Captain Bishop had hooked an ankle around one of the chair legs and pulled it out from under him. “Longer than you'd survive in the vacuum of space, for one. Two minutes is two-thirds of the time it'd take for you to die of oxygen deprivation. Two minutes is enough time for one of your teammates to go into shock from blood loss. Two minutes is enough time to figure out an emergency plan of attack. Two minutes is enough time to block a hit that would have killed your teammate. _That's_ two minutes.”

To block a hit that...oh. _Right._ Because of _course_ this was about Lang again. It always came back to Lang. Tom glared at her from where he'd landed on the floor and said, “Yeah, ok. Two minutes. Very important.”

“You talk to the captain with some _respect—_ ”

_“Bradley.”_ Bishop didn't sound much happier with him than she was with Shepherd. “When I need your help with discipline I'll _ask_ for it.”

Bradley shut up and looked down into his rations again, mouth tight at the corners.

“I'll let it slide this time, since we're too far out for me to give you anything _else_ useful to do.” She shoved the chair back towards Tom, but didn't unhook her foot from it. “But next time, when I say be down in five minutes, I mean be down in five minutes. Unless you'd _rather_ be mining silicates in the prison camps on Callisto.”

“Not especially.” He picked himself up from the floor and sat down, making a show of rubbing at his ass where it'd hit the floor.

“Not especially...?” She gave the leg of his chair a warning tug.

“Not especially, _Captain._ ”

“Good. Now eat quick, anything you don't finish before the briefing goes in the matter recycler. Something _funny,_ Altman?”

Altman shook his head emphatically, making the rings in his ears jingle. “No, Captain.” But when she turned her attention back to her bowl he glanced over at Tom and winked, making an obscure gesture with his hand and mouthing, _“She's a grouch in the morning.”_

Tom flipped him off when the captain wasn't looking and then plowed into his bowl of rations—unappetizing, but better than what they'd had on Callisto.

Nobody wanted to spend too much time tasting the rations, so they were all done eating about ten minutes later. Captain Bishop threw her bowl into the dish hopper with a practiced toss. “All right, people, go do your PT and be in the briefing room at oh-nine-hundred hours. Time to learn about the mission.”

 

_0830_

 

“You shouldn't try so hard to piss her off.” Kaplan grimaced as he did a slow pull-up, his good leg curled beneath him, the braced one dangling uselessly. The psychic didn't look like much in uniform, with his heavy limp and his cheerful attitude, but see him with his shirt off and you'd think twice about getting into a fist fight with the guy. Or at least, Tom would. “It doesn't help your case any.”

“If there was any helping my case I wouldn't _be_ here, Kaplan.” Tom perched on the PT room's one cardio machine, a treadmill almost as old as he was, and ran like he could run right off the whole fucking ship. “If there was _any_ helping my case I'd be in the tropics on fucking Old Earth, in the Carolinas or somewhere, lying in the sun having a pink drink with a stupid name and not thinking _anything_ about Captain Bishop.”

“A pink drink, huh? Didn't think you were the type.” Another pull-up, and at the apex Kaplan flashed him a brief grin.

Tom rolled his eyes. “So I've got a sweet tooth.”

“Nothing wrong with that. Could go for a pink drink myself, some days. Very soothing.”

“Bet Bishop wouldn't know a pink drink if it came up and bit her on the ass.”

_That_ got Kaplan frowning. “Maybe or maybe not. She wasn't always like this.”

Tom didn't have anything to say to that. He just stared at the blank wall in front of the treadmill and kept running. Kaplan was always saying that, always claiming that Bishop hadn't been like that forever, that once she'd been friendly, but as far as Tom was concerned she'd always been a hard bitch, and Lang's death had only made her harder.

Space wasn't so bad. It was better than the convict mines, at least, which was why he'd jumped at the opportunity to commute his sentence. Military life didn't suit him, though, and especially not life on a small ship with only four other people. Even Kaplan, by far the most tolerable of them, grated on his nerves.

Of course, relations hadn't been improved by the fact that he'd joined the team for a mission that ended with a dead lieutenant, a permanently crippled psychic, the loss of a valuable synthezoid, and egg on the captain's face. The Doom job had been messy even by classic wetworks standards.

He ran and didn't think about the fact that he wasn't going anywhere.

The intercom crackled. _“Briefing in five, people.”_

 

_0900_

 

“So we're far enough out that I can tell you the job now without worrying about you shellheads blabbing.” The heat in the briefing room was busted; Captain Bishop was the only one not apparently feeling the cold as she paced in front of them. “La—gentlemen, we're going bug hunting.”

Altman raised an eyebrow. “ _Bug_ hunting? Are we exterminators now? Is Command _that_ pissed at us?”

“That's what I said, Altman. Bug hunting. After our _last_ mess, Command doesn't want us anywhere near the public eye. In an hour's time we'll be landing at Navy Outpost Sierra-Whiskey-Delta-Four Decom, where we'll be tracking down an alien commando who recently escaped government custody. This is a search and destroy, gentlemen. No traces, no talking, no mercy.”

Tom snorted. “A _bug,_ though?”

“Did I _stutter,_ Shepherd? Our commando's a hybrid. Shares a few traits with the common North American cockroach—only _this_ roach stands at six foot three and took out five square blocks of New York City by _itself._ ”

“Using _what?_ ” Kaplan looked horrified. “Its _mandibles?_ ”

“High explosives.”

The others looked even _more_ horrified by this, but Tom was grinning. “Sounds like my kind of bug.”

Bradley snorted. “Of _course_ it does.”

Bishop's kick shook the table, and the four men looked back up at her, startled. She rolled her eyes. “ _Gentlemen._ Our roach went to ground at the outpost five days ago. It is armed and _extremely_ dangerous. We shoot on sight. We shoot to _kill._ We do not _engage_ it. We do not _negotiate._ ”

“It can _talk?_ ”

“Don't know, don't care, Bradley. Command didn't feel like passing that along. But it can definitely understand us, and that's all we need to know.” Bishop surveyed them with the look of someone who wished she had something better to be doing. “Kaplan, you're on the ship, you'll be our early warning system. Keep scanning, keep flying, and let us know if you sense _anything._ Now suit up, people.” She cracked her neck, looking grimly pleased for one brief moment. “Let's go kill a roach.”

 

_0930_

 

Tom passed by the cockpit of the ship and tried not to notice that Altman and Kaplan were both in there, heads together in a way that suggested they were breaking a variety of regulations. He was a born snoop, though, couldn't help it, and so he paused just past the door to listen to them.

“Don't get killed, Ted.” Kaplan's voice was soft. “Lang was hard enough.”

Altman's soft laughter. “How could I get killed? I won't be constantly distracted by the need to save _your_ scrawny ass.” A pause, and then, “Hey, no. Bill. Don't look like that. I was teasing.”

“We could have saved her if I hadn't been lagging.”

“We couldn't have saved her. Can't really save anyone when they're that determined to charge in ahead of everyone else.” And the sound of mouth on mouth for a moment, and, “We should stop. Don't want to fubar that big brain of yours.”

“All the better to watch your back with, blondie.”

Passing the captain's tiny office next, he heard a thump that could have been something falling and _almost_ went in. Then, though— _would they do it for me? Do they give a shit?_

_No._

_Fuck 'em._

And the thump was followed by the captain saying, tiredly, “Bradley, we can't keep doing this.”

“Doing _what?_ ” Bradley didn't sound tired; he sounded _angry._ “Hiding from everyone?”

“Fraternizing.”

“ _That_ what we're doing? Not what _I'd_ call it.” A moment of heavy, angry breathing from both of them, and then, “Look, my tour's almost up. So's yours. Take a _break_. Come travel with me. I was going to go to the Shi'ar Imperium; I hear they've got a whole _planet_ of beaches and wine country.” Rustling, and the faint creak of well-oiled armor. “You need to relax, Kate. You need a break.”

“Bradley...Eli...I just. I fucked up so badly last time. Because I was too _relaxed._ I can't lose you too.”

“It _wasn't_ your fault.”

“I told Scott I'd take care of her.”

“It wasn't your _fault._ ”

“I _can't._ ”

“You _can._ This mission'll be a cakewalk. Get in, kill the bug, get out. And then...”

“And then?” The captain sounded awful, creaky, like something about to burst.

“Shi'ar wine country.”

The soft noise of lips touching, and for a moment Tom got distracted, thinking that hard bitch or not, the captain was a fine-looking woman. That in better circumstances _he'd_ be the one in there with her, getting to know how her mouth tasted, convincing her to spend some private time with _him_ in a more congenial location. He was more fun than Bradley anyway, _he_ could help her get t”hat stick out of her ass.

The illusion came crashing down, though, when he heard them stop kissing and Bradley said, “Assuming that little convict shit doesn't get us all killed first. You know he was in for arson?”

“I can handle Shepherd if it comes to that.”

“Let's hope it doesn't.”

_If they try anything I'll fucking report them._ Tom's lip curled, and he hurried on to stores to get his pulse rifle.

 

_1000_

 

SWD-4 had been a busy outpost thirty years ago, before the ongoing Skrull conflict had moved to other theaters. It hadn't been officially decommisioned then, since high command at the time had reasoned that the conflict might swing back around later. It had simply been _left,_ clean and neat and stocked with non-perishable food but otherwise empty, awaiting the day when soldiers returned to populate its covered halls again. And then it had been forgotten about. The Decom label had been slapped on twenty years after the planet had been abandoned, to cover up the absent-mindedness of bureaucracy.

Their shuttle docked in the dusty primary bay of the main complex, a rare open spot on the edge of a forest of slowly crumbling buildings and enclosed hallways. Terraforming hadn't taken well here. The air was thin and smelled faintly of methane, and above them as they disembarked the stars were far too bright for planetside comfort. The shuttle took off as soon as they were all out—Kaplan would send it back for them as soon as Captain Bishop confirmed with him that they'd completed the mission.

They could hear a faint cheeping as they made their way to the complex entrance. The only things that still lived on this tiny planet were birds.

And, apparently, bugs.

“Stay together.” Captain Bishop's voice was unnecessarily soft on their comms. “No wandering. Our bug's been tracked to this complex; it's probably holed up in the barracks. We'll go there first.”

The mood was weirdly depressed as they made their way through the halls. Bits of the ceiling were falling in as the place deteriorated; it looked unloved, and felt _haunted._

Altman shuddered. “This place gives me the creeps. I feel like something's watching me.”

“Well, then, keep it _down,_ Altman. Last thing we need is to let this thing get the drop on us.”

The complex was _enormous._ It took them almost half an hour to make their way out of the dispatch and engineering wing, picking their way around chunks of ceiling and mostly ignoring the neatly laid-out benches of tools and cabinets of spare parts.

Except for Tom, who frowned. “Looks like someone's been _using_ this shit.”

“Like who?” Bradley huffed softly. “Ghost engineers, working on all those projects they didn't have the time for when this place was useful?”

“I don't fuckin' know, asshole. Maybe it was the roach. Thing's supposed to be intelligent, right?”

“Intelligent, yeah, but it's a _bug._ These are _human_ tools. Guess you didn't learn too much about _anatomy_ in prison. 'Less of course you got in on some of those extra-credit _shower_ courses I'm always hearing about.”

“Oh, _fuck_ you, Bradley, I'll show _you_ what I learned in prison—”

“Gentlemen.” Bishop had stopped dead. “If you can't shut the fuck up and act like civilized adults I will not _hesitate_ to put my boots up _both_ your asses. Bradley, if you make another crack like that you'll be heading back to the ship, bug or no bug. Shepherd, do not _threaten_ your teammates. We're all in this shit together.”

“Captain.” Altman's hand was shifting towards his pulse rifle. “Someone _has_ been using this stuff.”

She looked over at him. “What makes you say that, Altman?”

“Whoever it is left in the middle of...lunch.” He pointed—and sure enough, on a nearby tool bench sat a box of freeze-dried vegetables, half the contents eaten while still dehydrated and shrunken.

The box was _also_ partially eaten.

Bishop frowned. “Intel from command never mentioned anything like _that._ ”

Something _hissed_ at them, and they all looked slowly up.

It was clinging to the ceiling, the low emergency lights of the complex glistening on oddly-patterned black and white skin. Its silver eyes were faceted and vast; the rest of its face was shiny black, its mouth a grill, dark gray antennae laid flat against the dome of its head. And it didn't have six legs, as they would have expected. Except for its head, it seemed roughly _humanoid,_ an insectoid horror's face on the body of a star athlete with a carapace.

They stared at each other, the team and their target, and then Bishop pulled her pulse rifle from its cradle on her back and shouted, “Roach sighted! Open fire!”

It hissed at them again, moving backwards on the ceiling, and then disappeared in a burst of unnatural speed just as they fired.

“Chase it! Let's get moving, people!”

They ran after it.

 

_1100_

 

The chase hadn't accomplished anything; they'd had to give up after ten minutes, angry at the lack of any trail to follow and concerned at the idea of getting lost in the deteriorating facility. They'd made their way out of engineering, though, and through the administrative wing, seeing few signs of the roach's passing as they trudged along.

At a certain point everyone seemed to silently agree that things had gotten too quiet, and Altman hefted his pulse rifle and said, cheerfully, “You know, this place kind of reminds me of my ex-girlfriend's apartment.”

Bishop glanced at him, frowning. “You had a _girlfriend?_ ”

“Just the one. I was experimenting. You know.” He shrugged, smiling. “We gave it a decent go. Anyway, her apartment looked like this. Messy all the time.”

“Couldn't be as nasty as this.”

“You'd be surprised. I think she thought it was sexy.”

Bishop started laughing quietly, and Tom grinned, feeling suddenly relaxed, and said, “Bet you couldn't surprise me. Knew a girl back on Callisto, only thing that got her going was _art._ ”

This got _Bradley_ laughing. “ _Art?_ Man, I bet you _never_ got lucky with her.”

“Actually, you know what? She was really into _performance_ art. That's what she _called_ it, even.”

Bishop suppressed a hoot of delight, Altman shook, and Bradley started laughing so hard he sounded like he was choking, and...they were a team, for a moment, and it felt pretty much all right. They could even feel the whisper of Kaplan's psychic surveillance around them, and for a moment heard a faint and distant echo of his voice saying, _“No shit, Tom? Sounds like one hell of a girl.”_

“ _You_ know performance art types love to bare it all.” He grinned at them. “Speak in tongues for a few minutes, paint the walls some stupid color, get your tits out...she was a fuckin' blast to spend time with when she was in one of her not-so-crazy moods. I miss her sometimes.”

Altman grinned at him. “Well, where's she at now?”

Tom's shoulders went suddenly tight. “Still on Callisto, where the fuck do you think? That place is a life sentence most days.”

“Oh. Uh. Right, sorry.”

And there it was again, from Bradley, that look of wary distrust that always came up when Tom's teammates were reminded that they were working side-by-side with a convicted felon, and Tom thought about him saying, _“You know he was in for arson?”_ The only ones who'd never given him that look were Lang and Kaplan, and Kaplan wasn't with them for this and Lang was dead.

He shouldered his rifle, back stiff, and Bishop said, awkwardly, “We need to keep moving.”

This time when they heard the roach's hiss it was almost a relief, since at least it broke up the tension, or rather made _new_ tension for them to focus on as they looked around the atrium they'd come to, trying to spot where it was hiding.

It hissed again.

Bishop swung around and raised her gun—she'd swapped her pulse rifle out for a slim pistol with a liquid power core that shone violet—and shouted, “There. _Fire._ ”

As they opened fire, the roach dropped from the ceiling. Its hands went to its waist, and it drew _guns,_ not pulse weaponry like theirs but little laser handguns, of the kind used by police officers. _It_ opened fire on _them._

One of the first things Tom had learned in the perfunctory training offered to convict troopers was that firefights weren't fun. They looked exciting in the strobes, but in reality they were frightening and loud and all the adrenaline made you feel like shit. Normally Tom appreciated a good adrenaline high, but when the thing that got it flowing was the prospect of imminent death it was a lot less enjoyable.

The atrium was big, which was pretty much the only thing keeping them from shooting each other instead of the bug. They had close-quarters tactics memorized, of course, but it'd gotten the drop on them, and the shots were flying tight.

A pulse round missed the roach by millimeters, and it hissed again and fired, and—Bradley went down, cursing and grabbing his side. _“Fuck.”_

“Altman, Shepherd, keep on it! Bradley, you going to be all right?”

“Yeah, yeah, just a scratch, Captain, I'll be fine.” He fired off another round and winced. “Just a graze. Gonna be all right.”

They fired and fired, shots flew, and the next time the roach took aim Tom felt a sharp pain in his left leg, and he yelled and fell over. Captain Bishop shouted, “Shepherd!”

A momentary lull in the shooting as he tried to get back to his feet, and in that one moment of silence the roach holstered its guns and was gone again, blurring back down the corridors of the complex.

Bishop swore and moved towards Tom, reaching for the med kit on her belt. He waved her away, muttering, “I'm fine, leave it.”

“You're not _fine,_ you idiot, you've been _hit—_ Bradley!”

Bradley had taken a step and stumbled, letting out a choked gasp as he almost fell. Altman hurried to get an arm around his shoulders and sucked in a sharp breath when a trail of blood ran out of the hole in Bradley's armor. “He's bleeding pretty badly, Captain. We need to stop.”

Bishop looked at Bradley's ashy face and scowled. “Let's hurry, then. Shepherd, can you walk on your own?”

“Hurts like fuck, but yeah.”

“Then we'll make for that room there, that chem lab. Ought to be a better med kit in there.”

It wasn't far to the other side of the atrium, but it was still slow going, Bradley supported between Bishop and Altman with a cloth pad clutched to his side. The captain grinned at him, laughing in a way that sounded a bit strained. “Pressure, Bradley. You know the drill.”

Tom limped along behind them, wincing with each step, but he didn't really worry until he felt a sudden trickle of liquid down his ankle.

“Captain...?”

“Yeah, Shepherd?”

This time the roach didn't give them any warning.

It was on Tom before he could _blink,_ not firing but wrapping its arms around his neck in a choking grip. He shouted, trying to go for his rifle, his utility knife, _anything,_ his teammates going for their own weapons at what seemed like a terribly slow pace.

A lucky elbow to the...thorax, he supposed, and the roach stumbled back. But before Tom could collect himself it lunged again, one of Bishop's pistol rounds whizzing by its head. It landed on him, stepping hard on his _right_ leg, and there was a horrible cracking sound.

The pain was so shockingly intense that Tom blacked out completely.

 

_Time Unknown—Timestamp later confirmed at 1300_

 

He woke up slowly, and the first thing he thought was, _Soft._

And then, next, _What the fuck? Soft isn't right._

He opened his eyes, and was _almost_ happy when he saw that wherever it was, it was dimly lit, via the same kind of emergency lights that lined the halls. There _was_ also a small lamp in one corner, but it wasn't on. The room was actually pretty well set-up; things were a bit dusty, but it almost looked like he was in a swanky hotel room. _Soft_ had been because he was sitting on the bed. He shifted, felt a sharp stab of pain, and looked down at himself.

_“Fuck.”_

He'd been stripped of his outer armor and left in the Kevlar undersuit, and his hands had been bound in front of him. Under normal circumstances this would have made him laugh—he could slip a tie _any_ day—but...his left ankle was bound tightly in dermaplast bandages and splinted to keep him from moving it. His _right_ ankle and foot were encased in a clunky cast of the kind that had been in use thirty years ago, when the complex had been abandoned. He tried to move his legs and _yep,_ that was _definitely_ at least one broken bone.

“Fuck. Fuck. _Fuck!_ ”

There was a faint noise.

He jolted, biting his lip to keep from letting out a cry of pain, and looked over toward where he'd seen the lamp.

The roach was sitting in a chair in the shadowed corner, Tom's pulse rifle laid across its knees. The rifle was partially disassembled; several of the outer pieces lay on a cloth on the floor, and the shimmering green external power pack had been detached from its hose. As he looked over, it looked up at him, its faceted silver eyes gleaming.

A pause, a stretched-out moment of curious regard on both their parts, and then Tom said, “Hey. Hey, _fucker._ ” He knew there was some kind of _military protocol_ for this situation, something he was _supposed_ to be saying, but his ankle hurt and he was a little freaked out and he honestly didn't fucking _care_ about protocol, it wasn't like convict soldiers got the _full_ training on that shit. “Hey, _roach._ ”

It tilted its head to the side inquisitively.

“Yeah, I'm fucking talking to you. You holed up in the _officers' quarters?_ Pretty cute.” Tom snorted. “You snatch me so you could make some kind of deal? You can't even fucking _talk,_ can you? How're you going to make a deal if you can't even fucking talk?” He scowled. “You can't even _understand_ me, can you?”

The roach watched him for a moment and then made a noise—not the hissing from before, but something that actually sounded like it was trying to be words.

“That's cute. Keep trying, maybe you'll figure out how it works soon.”

Another sound, and then the roach made a vague gesture with one arm and—pulled its _head_ off.

And.

It wasn't its head, it was a _helmet,_ and Tom swore again, feeling like an idiot when, in a new context, he recognized the insectoid face and faceted eyes as the kind of heavy duty goggles-and-rebreather mask used by cops who expected to get gassed. The black and white carapace, too, wasn't _actually_ a carapace, it was a hazardous environments suit.

Underneath the helmet, the roach wasn't a roach at _all. It_ was a _man,_ silver-haired and with eyes the color of one of the old Antarctic ice caverns and the kind of breathtaking good looks normally reserved for Scandinavian actors and pieces of ancient statuary.

He said, in a deep and gloriously reverberant voice, “I understand you.”

Tom stared at him for a moment, _completely_ thrown off guard, and then, finally, managed to get out, “They said you were a _roach._ ”

“That's partially correct. I am a roach-Kree hybrid.”

“You're a fucking _Kree?_ Command didn't tell us you were _Kree._ ”

“I'm sure there are plenty of things they didn't tell you.”

“Yeah, apparently. You got a name?”

“My name is Noh-Varr. And according to the ident information embedded in your armor, _you_ are Thomas Eric Shepherd, Trooper 616-7729-C, of Special Forces Troupe 554.” Noh-Varr's gaze turned back to the rifle in his lap. “Your weapon is very interesting.”

Tom's lip curled. “Yeah, give it back to me and I'll show you how interesting it can be.”

Noh-Varr glanced at him briefly and then picked up the external power pack of the rifle. The green liquid inside it sloshed as he lifted it, and he thumbed open the port for the feed hose and sniffed at the fumes.

Tom's sneer slowly became a frown. “What the hell are you _doing?_ ”

The Kree ignored him in favor of carefully dipping one finger into the power pack liquid and then bringing that finger to his tongue. “Hm. Tangy.” Then, without further ado, he raised the pack to his lips and _drank_ it, his throat working as he swallowed the entire contents in one long pull.

Tom stared, aghast. “The hell is _wrong_ with you?”

“Well, I can't have you shooting me. Not that you can walk, but it would be inconvenient.” Noh-Varr tossed the now-useless power pack into the corner, set the rifle carefully aside, and stood. “How does your head feel?” He tapped a button on the wall, and the overhead light turned on.

“What's that got to do with whoa, _whoa,_ hang on there, roach boy, what are you _doing?_ ”

Noh-Varr had come over to the bed and promptly climbed on _top_ of him, straddling his legs, although he _was_ very careful not to bump either of Tom's injured ankles. “I'm checking to see if you have a concussion. I can hardly ask you to stand up.” He pulled a slim penlight out of his pocket and then grabbed Tom's chin, forcing his face up into the light. “Open your eyes, I need to look at your pupils.”

Tom cursed irritably but did as he was told, since with two bad ankles and his hands tied he wasn't much good for fighting and the Kree was _heavy._ When the penlight was shone into his eyes he winced, barely able to see Noh-Varr through the light. Then he had to open his mouth and stay very still while his teeth were examined—checking for cyanide capsules and cybernetic implants, Noh-Varr explained. It was _very_ weird. The Kree, the roach, the target— _Noh-Varr—_ was a warm weight on Tom's thighs, and the close contact and intimate setting combined in such a way that Tom was starting to have some _extremely_ inappropriate thoughts by the time the oral exam was finished.

“Clean. Good.”

“Well, _yeah,_ you think _I_ get the—”

He froze. Noh-Varr's fingers had moved from his mouth to his jawline, tracing gently along the seam where skin gave way to reinforced Kevlar. Feather-light, they felt along his jaw before moving in a slow and sensuous glide down the side of his neck.

Tom swallowed hard, suddenly _much_ more afraid of where this was going. There were only two options he could think of, and neither one was good—he'd stabbed people on Callisto for less than this, and _here_ he couldn't fight back. “What are you—”

_“There.”_ Noh-Varr's fingers closed on—Tom's comm unit, a barely visible node nestled against his collarbone.

Tom sagged with relief.

“What is your commander's name?”

He considered arguing, felt how close those hands were to his throat, and said, “Bishop. Captain Bishop.”

Noh-Varr turned on the comm, bent his head close to it and said, softly, “Attention, Captain Bishop, of Special Forces Troupe 554.”

The comm fizzed with static, and Captain Bishop said, faintly, _“Speaking. Who is this?”_

“My name is Noh-Varr. I am an armed and extremely dangerous Kree soldier.”

There was a moment of almost startled silence before Bishop said, _“I see. Where's my trooper?”_

“He's right here. Say hello, Thomas Shepherd.”

Tom took a deep breath. “Heya, Captain.”

_“Shepherd. What's your situation?”_

“Broken ankle. Plus that shot I took earlier. Hurts like a bitch.”

_“Yeah, laser shots do that.”_

“Plus I'm tied up.”

_“Not surprising, under the circumstances.”_ She paused. _“Let me talk to the alien again.”_

“I didn't go anywhere.”

“Yeah, he's, uh, kind of sitting on me. So he can use the comm.”

_“Ah. Right.”_ Bishop coughed. _“Look, Noh-Varr, what do you want? I have to say, kidnapping one of my troopers doesn't make me especially inclined to listen to you.”_

“May I remind you, Captain, that you shot first? I would have left you alone if not for that.”

_“I've got orders. What's your point?”_

“I require engine parts for a StarkTech Class L spacecraft. Your ship is of the same make. You will provide them.”

_“And why should I do that?”_

“If you don't I'll kill your trooper.”

_“I don't believe you. And I don't negotiate with kidnappers.”_

The back of Tom's head hit the wall, and he didn't have quite the wherewithal to stop himself from screaming. There was a hand. On his _throat._ Squeezing, not tight enough to cut off _all_ air, but still enough to make him _feel_ like he was suffocating.

_“Shepherd!”_

“Captain Bishop, I require engine parts.” Noh-Varr still sounded completely calm, as if Tom's desperate gasping was no more than wind. “And I'm not human. I don't make a habit of deception. Rest assured that if you don't give me what I ask for then I will kill Thomas Shepherd and leave his body where you sleep. Then I will take another. Your numbers aren't many, Captain Bishop, and you have other wounded.”

_“You'll do no such—”_

“I am stronger than you, my training is obviously better, and I have nothing to lose.”

This time Captain Bishop didn't reply.

“I require these parts.” He rattled off several serial numbers, with brief descriptors. “I will give you six hours, and then contact you again.”

He turned off the comm.

And— _air._

Tom sucked in a heaving breath, so happy to just be _breathing_ that he almost _wept._ His throat hurt, and he knew, abstractly, that he was going to have finger-shaped bruises on the side of his neck now, but he swallowed convulsively anyway, just to enjoy the _feeling_ of it.

He went stiff at the brush of fingers through the Kevlar and Noh-Varr frowned faintly. “Thin skin. Why were you afraid before?”

Tom gaped at him. “Why was I—you almost _killed_ me.”

“No, before that. You were only angry, but then when I started looking for your comm you were afraid. Why?”

Tom bit his lip and said nothing.

Noh-Varr stared down at him for a moment, and then his eyes widened slightly. “You thought...Thomas Shepherd, I am not _human._ ” He actually looked offended. “ _I_ am capable of civilized behavior. You can rest assured that for as long as you are my prisoner, there are only two reasons I will ever lay hands on you.”

“Yeah?” Tom was shocked by how bad his own voice sounded in his sore throat.

“If I touch you, it will only be to tend to your needs or to kill you. Probably the latter, if your captain keeps up the attitude she was taking before.”

“Oh, because _that's_ reassuring.”

The corner of the Kree's mouth twitched, as if he was suppressing the urge to smile. “Truly, Thomas Shepherd, I am a benevolent captor.”

Thomas snorted, feeling just reckless enough to say, “ _Shut_ up.”

 

_1500_

 

“Why did you do it?”

They had been sitting in relative silence for two hours at this point. Noh-Varr was absorbed in a document on the tablet he carried—technical documentation, Tom assumed—and Tom had run out of curses some time ago. Normally he was a big talker, but under the circumstances he didn't feel like there was a ton he really wanted to say. Not here, not now, and not to this _roach._

But he had to know.

Noh-Varr looked up from his tablet. “Why did I do what?”

“Briefing said you blew up five blocks of New York. Why? You trying to take over the world? Is it religious? Political? Someone sell you a bad hot dog? Or do you just like seeing things explode?” Not, Tom thought, that the last reason was necessarily _bad;_ he knew from the need to stir shit, that much was true.

The alien watched him for a moment, and then set the tablet aside completely. “Did your briefing say anything else about me?”

Tom shrugged. “Not really. Command doesn't tell us much. Alien, cockroach, big danger, search and destroy. Everything else strictly need-to-know.”

“So they didn't mention where I'd been _before_ I blew up five blocks of New York.”

“Nope. Why? Should I give a shit?”

Noh-Varr stood up. “I was in training to be a diplomat, once. I was created to submerge myself in alien cultures, to _learn_ about them. My combat capabilities were intended for self-defense. I was not meant to be a soldier.” His hands went to the high collar of his hazard suit. “When my ship appeared in the skies over Earth and attempted to communicate, however, we were assumed hostile and shot down. The rest of the crew was killed. I was remanded to a government-run scientific facility.” He unzipped the top half of his uniform and pulled it off, letting it dangle around his waist as he spread his arms wide. “For _study._ ”

Tom stared. The Kree's torso was textured, a mass of fine white scars, like a road map of a place designed to be un-navigable.

“As I am sure you can guess, when I escaped I was not entirely happy with how I'd been treated. I wanted to make a point of my displeasure.”

Words returned. “By blowing up _New York?_ ”

“It was the nearest city to hand.” Noh-Varr sat down again, not bothering to put the top half of his suit back on. “And in any case I'm sure you can understand how... _unhappy_ I was. Or does your identification number _not_ include a convict designation?”

“Oh, _fuck_ you.”

“If we were meeting under more congenial circumstances I'd certainly consider it.”

“I—wait, what? ...did you just _hit_ on me?”

“This waiting is extremely boring, I was trying to liven up the conversation.”

“That is _not_ the way to do it.”

“What, then? Should we discuss politics? Literature? I enjoy music, should we talk about that? You're not giving me much to work with.”

“You listen to _music?_ ”

“Quite a bit. Earth has produced a great deal of interesting music; I'm especially fond of Lotte Lenya and King Crimson.”

“I don't even know who those people are.”

“I suppose they're before your time.”

“Before yours too, I don't think you're that much older than me.”

Tom's comm unit buzzed.

Noh-Varr was back on top of him in seconds, leaning in close as he turned the device on. “Captain Bishop. Sooner than I'd expected to hear from you.”

_“We've been discussing your demands.”_

“My _requests,_ Captain. If I was making _demands,_ Thomas Shepherd would already be dead.”

_“Yeah, well. I don't have an answer for you anyway.”_

“Then why did you call?”

_“We need more time. My pilot's not sure he even has the parts you want. You said six hours before, give us twelve instead.”_

Noh-Varr paused, frowning as if considering it deeply, and then said, “That's acceptable. You've used up two hours, though; you have ten more in which to contact me. I will call you then.”

 

_1800_

 

Tom's stomach growled.

Noh-Varr looked up from his tablet with some surprise. “Was that you?”

“Of _course_ it fucking was, I'm _starving._ Do Kree not _eat?_ ”

“We eat. But I'm a hybrid, I'm designed to survive for long periods without sustenance. I occasionally forget that others require food. I apologize.” He glanced around the room and frowned. “However, I don't think I _have_ anything for you to eat. The food stores here are extensive, but I don't really have the proper resources to rehydrate things right now, and I don't think you can eat dehydrated food like I can.”

Tom made a face. “Not without getting _really_ sick. Look, I have stuff, just...untie my hands and I'll have some of the ration shit they give us.”

“Impossible. If I untie you then you might try to escape, and then I'd have to hurt you again, and I'd really rather avoid that.” Noh-Varr stood up. “Where are your rations?”

Tom closed his eyes, scowling. “You're just looking for excuses to get your hands on me, aren't you? Right thigh, the zipped pocket just above my knee. And try to restrain yourself.” His earlier trip to the in-suite bathroom had been awkward enough with Noh-Varr standing right outside the door; he could hardly _imagine_ dealing with the alien reaching into his pocket.

Thankfully, Noh-Varr was almost _clinical_ about it. He extracted a ration bar with minimal physical contact and sat down next to Tom on the bed, feeding the compacted rice-and-nutrient thing to him in small pieces. His fingers barely brushed Tom's lips; he seemed to be very focused on touching him as little as possible. After they'd gotten through the ration bar, he got a bottle of water, which Tom drank through a straw, feeling deeply irritated with his life. Shit childhood, boring school, went into safecracking, got himself arrested, ten years on Callisto and the white hair to prove it, and he'd only enlisted to keep from dying deaf and crooked in the mines and for the opportunity to maybe blow something up for _fun_ instead of just _profit._

And here he was. Two bad ankles and tied hands, on a planet that didn't even have a name in a military base that hadn't been in use for thirty years, at the mercy of a dangerous alien commando while he waited for a woman who didn't even _like_ him to decide whether his life was worth saving.

It was enough to give a man some pretty dark thoughts.

 

_2100_

 

Bishop was going to let him die.

He knew it.

She didn't like him. She'd _never_ liked him. He'd been dropped onto her head when she didn't want another soldier in her command, debuted with the team's most _spectacular_ fuck-up, and didn't get along with any of his comrades in arms. They'd only _barely_ succeeded in extracting their target on the last mission; if she had to come back reporting a complete failure for this one, it'd be her head on the chopping block. Troopers could be replaced, but if she let her target get away she'd be an embarrassment to the Special Forces.

She was stalling to call for backup.

She was going to let him die.

Tom didn't realize he'd said anything out loud until Noh-Varr looked over at him and said, “Excuse me?”

“She's not going to do it.” Tom stared down at his broken ankle, sightless. “She's going to let me die.”

“What makes you say that?”

“Captain doesn't really—”

_Buzz._

This time Tom didn't even get tense. He didn't even _want_ to think about what it meant that he was getting used to Noh-Varr sitting on him.

Bishop didn't even wait for Noh-Varr to greet her. _“We have your ship parts.”_

Noh-Varr's gaze flicked briefly to Tom's face before he said, “Excellent. Are they readily available?”

_“No. They're back at our ship, my pilot has to deliver them to me.”_

“When can you have them for me?”

_“I can get them to you by oh-three hundred hours. Outside our time frame, I know, but I can't do it any quicker. And you better have my trooper in one piece for me.”_

“That's acceptable. I will meet you in the tertiary bay at that time. Don't try to find me or interfere with my ship before that; if you do, Thomas Shepherd will die.”

_“I understand that.”_

“Then we're agreed.”

_“Agreed. We'll see you then.”_

Comm off, and Noh-Varr looked down at Tom and said, “You have very little faith in your captain.”

Tom sighed. “Yeah, well, she doesn't have a ton of faith in me.”

 

_0000_

 

Noh-Varr, Tom realized at a certain point, had been nothing but courteous to him. Apart from the death threats, of course, which were perfectly understandable. He was polite, and oddly friendly, and did on occasion try to engage Tom in conversations. They _had_ ended up talking about music for a while, with some civility, and had moved on from there to strobes they'd both seen and a brief discussion of politics.

Oddly enough, Tom actually found _his_ company more enjoyable than that of any of his teammates.

And that...that was a thought.

More than a thought, that was a _plan._

Noh-Varr had told him to sleep, but he couldn't manage it. Even with painkillers, his ankles hurt too much to relax, and his mind was racing. The Kree seemed to have no such problem; he had returned to his chair in the corner, and he sat with his back straight and his eyes closed, breathing slow.

“Hey,” Tom said. “Hey, roach boy.”

Noh-Varr opened one eye, and it was as if he had never been sleeping. “Yes, Thomas Shepherd?”

“You know this is a trap, right?”

_That_ got the alien's full attention. “How do you mean?”

“Captain's setting you up. She's a crafty bitch. She'll reel you in with promises and then shoot you in the back. She doesn't believe in failing missions.”

“Is that so.” Noh-Varr was watching him. “That's a poor trait in a captain.”

“She's had a few setbacks lately. Wants to prove herself to Command again. She's climbing straight to the top.” Tom settled back against the wall, his stomach rolling. This was either the best plan he'd ever had or the worst. He wasn't sure which. “And she doesn't like me much. Probably'll just let me get shot. By accident, you know. Doesn't want any ex-cons on her team.”

A long pause, and, “I'm sure she's a woman of honor.”

Tom resisted the urge to look disappointed until Noh-Varr had closed his eyes again. This was the worst day of his entire life.

“She's going to get me sent back to Callisto for sure.”

 

_0300_

 

Now, finally, Tom got to learn how Noh-Varr had gotten him back to the suite in which he'd been holed up when all he had to offer was dead weight. He knew that Kree were _strong,_ but it was one thing to be told it and another thing to be picked up and cradled with no more effort than he might have put into picking up a child. The tertiary bay was on the far end of the complex, and Tom couldn't walk anyway, so Noh-Varr carried him and _ran,_ the normally motionless air of the enclosed hallways rushing past their faces in a wind more exhilirating than any Tom had felt before.

Like his hazard suit and laser pistol, his ship was police issue and obviously stolen, a neat little black-and-white starjumper buggy. For the most part it was in perfect shape, but Tom could see exactly where repairs were needed; the starjump-capable cruisers had one major weakness, a little panel that, if hit, would decommission the hyperdrive pretty quickly. He'd shot out one or two hyperdrives himself, in his time. He knew the damage it could do—and also that it _was_ repairable.

Noh-Varr took up a spot in front of his ship, setting Tom on the ground beside him, and took out his pistols. “Please don't try to escape,” he said, pleasantly. “I've enjoyed your company. I would hate to have to shoot you.”

“Yeah, well, I'd hate to get shot, so I think we're good.”

A few minutes later they heard a low hum, and the troupe ship set down on the other side of the bay. They watched expectantly as the doors opened, and then Bishop came out, her hands up, her plasma rifle on her back. Altman was close behind her, pushing a wheeled crate loaded with ship parts, and behind _him_ was _Kaplan,_ leaning heavily on a cane. The psychic looked across the bay at Tom and laughed, suddenly.

Noh-Varr frowned. “What's he laughing at?”

Tom shrugged. “Psychics. I don't get 'em at all.”

“Noh-Varr!” Bishop had stopped. “We have your parts. Release my trooper and we'll trade.”

“Certainly. Send your man over with the parts; Thomas Shepherd cannot walk.”

Tom saluted, grinning awkwardly. “Hi, Captain.”

“Shepherd, you hurt?”

“No more than I was before. Where's Bradley?”

“Infirmary.”

“Yeah, guess I should have expected that.”

Bishop nodded. “Altman. Make the trade.”

Altman's progress across the bay seemed agonizingly slow, hampered as he was by the badly-mounted casters on the crate. When he drew near their end, Noh-Varr stepped forward to meet him, and Altman waved. “Hey, there. I hear you're pretty polite for a cockroach. Shepherd, Kaplan was worried about you, don't pull shit like this.”

“Hey, fuck you too, Altman, I didn't ask for this.”

“Never said you did, Shepherd.” Altman flashed him an easy grin. “Anyway, here you go, Mr. Cockroach. One crate full of extremely expensive spaceship parts. Hand over my friend.”

As soon as he stepped away from the crate several things happened very quickly.

Noh-Varr darted forward and _kicked_ the crate, sending it rolling over to the cargo entrance of his own ship. It bumped to a stop next to the doors. Altman went reeling back, unconscious—Noh-Var had struck him, hard. Bishop went for her rifle, and Kaplan's hand moved to his temple.

And Tom breathed in sharply, because his feet were _off_ the ground, Noh-Varr's arm was around his throat, and the barrel of a laser pistol was pressed to the side of his head.

Bishop managed to get her rifle out. “What the hell is this?”

“There has been,” Noh-Varr said, in slow, measured tones, “a change of plans.”

“We had a deal!”

“I have changed the deal. I don't trust you, Captain Bishop. I don't trust most humans, and you haven't given me any reason to think that you won't shoot me as soon as my back is turned.”

Tom gasped for air, clawing at the arm around his neck. This _wasn't_ what he'd planned.

Shit.

He was going to die.

“You have very graciously provided me with parts for my ship, and I thank you. _However,_ I require insurance that you won't shoot me down just as I have begun my repairs.”

Bishop looked furious. “Insurance? _What_ insurance?”

“Thomas Shepherd will be coming with me, to provide the surety for your good behaviour. If you fire on me, he will die. If you pursue me, he will die. If you _hit_ me—he will die, and I will come for you.”

There was a terrible suspended pause.

And then Bishop looked from Noh-Varr, to Altman's unconscious form, to Noh-Varr's ship, to Shepherd in the Kree's grip, and said, “Shit.”

 

_0500_

 

As soon as the little starjumper was out of the atmosphere, Noh-Varr had set about making repairs. He left Tom in the mess, propped up against the wall with his legs out in front of him, still massaging his throat and staring up at the Kree in bafflement.

Tom wasn't sure if his plan had even _worked._ He was free of the Special Forces, sure, free of Callisto, free of human bullshit, but the lingering threat of death still hung over his head.

Then, two hours into their flight, the lights flickered, and there was a deep thrumming sound as the hyperdrive spun up. Then, a few minutes later, the sickening lurch of a starjump.

Where were they going?

When Noh-Varr entered the mess, Tom only had a moment to stare up at him, before finding himself yet again in a position now weirdly familiar—Noh-Varr had settled down on his lap once more. Without the need to use the comm, Tom wasn't quite sure why.

Noh-Varr looked down at him and said, softly, “You have been a great help to me, Thomas Shepherd. I am very grateful.”

“Yeah, well.” Tom coughed, wincing. “Can't really say the same for—”

_Lips._

Noh-Varr had _kissed_ him.

He blinked, and then blinked again.

“We will reach the Shi'ar Imperium in two days, Thomas Shepherd. For now, sleep; we can discuss any further plans when you've rested.”

Tom blinked several more times and then said, “You know, under the circumstances...”

“Yes?”

“I think you can call me Tom.”

**Author's Note:**

> SPAAAAACE.
> 
> *ahem* If you enjoyed the story, please let me know!
> 
> Eventually I want to write follow-up porn.


End file.
